homeward-bound, we here landed a host of men from the Oil-rivers, greatly
to my delight, as they had cumbered the deck with their leaky powder-kegs,
amid which wandered the sailors, smoking unconcernedly. In the 'good old
times' this would not have been allowed. At least one poor fellow was
drowned, so careful were the relatives to embark the kit, so careless of
the owner's person. Next day we sighted the 'Garraway-trees,' silk cottons
some 200 feet high, fine marks for clearing the Cape shoals. Then came
Fishtown and Rocktown, once celebrated for the exploits of Ashmun and his
associates; and at 2.15 P.M. we anchored in the heavy Harmatan roll off

The Cape of Palmas, called from palmy shade.

A score of years ago the A.S.S. steamers lay within half a mile of shore;
and, 'barrin'' the ducking, it was easy to land. But the bay is bossed with
rocks and skirted with shoals; they lurk treacherously under water, and
have brought many a tall ship to grief. As for the obsolete hydrographic
charts, they only add to the danger. Two wrecks give us ample warning. One
is a German barque lying close to the bar of the fussy little river; the
other, a huge mass of rust, is the hapless _Yoruba_. Years ago, after the
fashion of the _Nigritia_ and the _Monrovia_, she was carelessly lost.
Though anchored in a safe place, when swinging round she hit upon a rock
and was incontinently ripped up; the injured compartment filled, and the
skipper ran her on the beach, wrecking her according to Act of Parliament.
They once managed to get her off, but she had not power to stem the seas,
and there she still lies high and dry.

Cape Palmas, or Bamnepo, with its outlying islet-reef of black rock, on
which breaks an eternal surf, is the theoretical turning-point from the
Windward coast, which begins with the Senegal, to the Leeward, and which
ends in the Benin Bight. We are entering the region